daytime television
by CherryFlavoredChalk
Summary: Demyx is the spawn of Satan and other Horrible Things, Xigbar regrets working at Canadian bars, and Axel is just an idiot. CRACK. XigbarDemyx, DemyxXigbar.


**a/n:** There is no possible explanation for this. It is pure, unadulerated crack, with a side-dish of 100-percent insanity. This is what happens when you never update and you get stressed too easily.

* * *

**_daytime_ **television

_it's a good excuse to be a bad influence on you_

Canada brought beer, and with it, underage teenagers with obnoxious dispositions.

"Can I get a scotch on the rocks?" the kid said. He leaned so far over the counter that he nearly toppled over, grinning wildly as he caught himself. His eyeliner was smudged, collecting at the corner of one of his eyes. "Pretty please?"

Xigbar was tired. Xigbar was over-worked. Xigbar was only being paid by the amount of booze he delivered to those willing to get wasted, but he wasn't going to sell it to some youthful pansy-in-training who wore enough make up to scare a toddler. "No. Get out."

"Aww, c'mon," wheedled the kid, "be a pal." He winked at Xigbar and adjusted the awkward feather boa that he'd seen a giggling girl toss around his neck just moments before.

"Are you twenty-one?"

The kid fidgeted. "Well, no, actually." He sighed and toyed with the edge of his feather boa, wrapping it around his skinny little neck like a scarf. "But you know," he brightened, "I could be." His voice dipped in a manner that might've hinted at being sultry, if he didn't look like he was about twelve. "That is, if you _want_ me to be."

"I want," Xigbar said kindly, "to get the hell off my bar and the _fuck_ out of this club. And take your little harpies with you—" He pointed in the general direction of the swarm of not-quite-legal girls over by the other edge of the bar, "—they're dragging down the service."

The kid, who couldn't take a hint, be it subtle or thrown in his face, said mulishly, "If anything, they're upping it."

"Sure I want some toddlers rubbing their stick-arms all over the counter." Xigbar shot at him.

"Sure anyone was even here beforehand." The kid shot back. He smirked, quirking an eyebrow. "My ladies add class to this place, you feel me?" He crossed his legs in a manner that only made Xigbar feel slightly jealous and propped his chin up on his hands.

"I've seen toilets classier than this shit hole." Xigbar snarled. It was late, and as much as he hated to admit it, nobody had actually been frequenting the bar until the kid and his 'ladies' waltzed up. This may or may not have to do with his surly disposition and/or lack of basic social skills.

"Then why work here?"

Xigbar scrubbed a glass furiously. "Why dress yourself like a ten-cent whore?"

The kid laughed. "You're hurting my feelings."

"Excuse the fuck out of me, ma'am, but I never claimed to be a nice man." Xigbar drawled. He put the glass down with more force than was bartending protocol, and ignored the whines of the idiot working next to him to respect the glassware. "Anyways. Beat it, infant, I'm not getting paid for babysitting."

The kid fluttered his eyelashes. "Baby, you can sit on me _any time_."

The Idiot, who was starting to work his way into a conniption with his laughter, slapped his thigh and cackled, "Whoo-wee, Xiggy, you've got your work for you right there!" He slid a glass filled with Fresca to the kid and smiled. "What's your name, kiddo?"

"I'm not a _kid_." The kid whined. "My name's Demyx." He pushed away the Fresca, his lower lip poking out in some pout he'd probably copied off daytime television.

"You know," Xigbar said loftily, "where I come from, sticking out your lip like that is just asking to get it cut off, diced in a saucepan and fried up with some onions for dinner."

There was a space allowed for a suitably awkward silence, and then: "Jesus Christ, Xigbar," Idiot said, looking appalled, "where are you _from_?"

"…New England."

"The hell did that come from, then?"

"It was on a commercial."

"What the f—what commercials are _you_ watching?"

"What's in New England?" Demyx asked eagerly, further attaching himself to the bar.

"Cities, hot dogs—" said Xigbar, as Idiot cut in with, "—Pretty little girls like yourself in pea-coats, with bulimia and nervous breakdowns for accessories."

Demyx preened. "You think I'm _pretty_?" He grinned smugly at Xigbar.

Xigbar snorted. "_Axel_ thinks you're pretty. _I_ think you're a parasite." He gave the kid another pointed look and gestured toward the exit sign. "Scram, toots."

The circumference of the kid's baby blues increased by about two inches. "But I—"

"You should probably go." Axel the Idiot said apologetically. "You could get Xiggy and me in trouble."

"But…"

"Sometime before I turn eighty is good." Xigbar said helpfully. The kid huffed indignantly and hopped off the stool, snatching up his girlfriends as he left.

"Xig, don't you think that was—"

"No."

"I'm just saying—"

"Don't." Xigbar said waspishly. "I _enjoy_ being a douchebag, and _no_, Axel, I _don't_ need some underage, barely-potty-trained brat to spice up my love life."

Axel the Idiot blinked. "Well, I just thought—well, yanno, everyone needs a little somethin' to, yanno, light their candle…"

"Stop." Xigbar said abortively, wagging a finger at Axel. "Just. Stop. If you quit now, then I won't beat you senseless."

Axel drooped. " 'Kay," he muttered quietly, "I'll close up. People're starting to get too drunk anyways—I'll just hitch a ride with Zexion, provided he hasn't drowned in his own vomit yet. Go on home, Xig."

Xigbar nodded and hustled his way out of the bar, his face already sinking into what That Idiot (otherwise known as Axel) called 'The Look of Distaste For Humanity' (which had been nicknamed 'The Angry Goth Look' up until Axel had accidentally referred to it as such in front of a clump of infuriated baby-goths who were taking time off from school to practice being disillusioned…the resulting effect had not been pretty). He strode agitatedly towards his car—Axel's car too, actually, but who cared?—the key already whipped out to jam into the lock.

"Oh, yeah, baby. Whip that bad boy right out."

…And there was the fucking kid sitting on the roof of his car, his legs primly crossed and smiling like he ate the cat and the canary. He was tangled up in his feather boa, which appeared to be molting all over the roll-down top and, despite the broad grin, seemed to be trying his hardest to dig his ugly high-heeled shoes into the window-shield.

Xigbar, to put it in politest terms possible, lost his shit.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING, OH GOD, THE _CAR_—!"

Demyx, spawn of Satan and Horrible Things (taxes, long lines at the movie theater, lint, the IRS), yawned in a way that most people would've found cute and said in a very infuriating and not at all endearing singsong-y voice, "I got lonely."

"Yeah, well, cry me a friggin' river, _Britney_." Xigbar snarled. "I get lonely too, yanno, but I don't drape myself all over nice old men's cars like I'm the Queen of fuckin' Sheba, do I? No, I don't. BECAUSE I HAVE TO GO HOME AND PAY MY MOTHERFUCKIN' TAXES, YOU STUPID LITTLE BITCH."

The kid's eyes widened just a little, and Xigbar felt victorious, even though he knew he was being obnoxious and loud and he could probably be heard from here to good ol' cheery New England, home to cute kids with eating disorders.

"You know," said the kid, who had yet to lose his stupid grin or, better yet, _stop keying his car with his pumps,_ "you're not an old man. And you're not nice, either. You're actually a drop-out, right? Philosophy major with a minor in Chemistry who realized sometime through his third year that no, Socrates does _not_ help out when you're looking through the classifieds. Therefore, you retreated to Canada to work as a shitty bartender for a shitty bar with a guy you don't particularly like but can't survive without, given that he covers your rent most of the time."

Xigbar squawked.

"You," said the kid cheerily, "are about as interesting as Lifetime movies. Daytime television, if you will."

Okay, that was it. Xigbar had officially gotten his dander up, or whatever it was currently masquerading as. He wouldn't know, because he didn't actually know what it was. "Look, Fruitcup, I don't who you think you are, but—"

The kid hopped off of the car and slid his way over to Xigbar, smiling broadly. His eyes seemed very large and very blue in the dark.

"It's _Demyx_," the kid said patiently, his hands placed firmly on the lapels of Xigbar's bomber jacket, "and, FYI, old man—I never did say I liked cable."


End file.
